The Wager
by soupsouffle
Summary: Jack makes a wager with Phryne. Fluffy, smutty romping ensues.
1. Ladies and Gentleman, Place Your Bets

Note: So this has been up on AO3 for a bit, not sure what kept me from putting it on here but it's here now! Hope you guys enjoy. Be warned...final chapter is a strong M. :) Not like weird or anything. Just. Strong. Thanks for reading and let me know what you think if you get a minute!

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"It is just the way of things, Jack. You must learn not to be jealous."

"The way of things! For a man to flirt openly with a woman in front of the man she is stepping out with?"

Phryne closed the door behind them with a knowing grin. "If you noticed, I did not flirt back."

Jack frowned at her. "That isn't the point. A man should have some decency. A man should know better."

Phryne gave him a coy smirk, reaching out to clasp her hands together behind his neck. "Jack, most men do not hold themselves to your high standard. Most men are drooling puppies over the women they find desirable, and once they have her attention, they will do anything to keep it."

"What you are describing, my sweet, are boys, not men. A man is in control of himself at all times. A man does not let his head be turned by just any floozy walking down the street—do not be offended, Phryne, you know I don't mean you. My point is, a man saves his attentions for the right woman. A man is careful about showing his affections, is delicate about revealing himself and his feelings to the woman he wants." He suddenly switched to a sly, sultry, grin and spanned her waist with a large, sure hand.

"A man takes the time to learn what makes his woman tick, and once he does, she is putty in his hands, powerless to resist him. Not the other way around."

He was not half wrong, and she wondered how much time he had put into learning what made her tick, for her powerlessness was indeed growing by the day. Yet she would argue with him anyway. "Is that what you think, Jack? You think I am powerless to resist you?"

His grin was extremely self-satisfied. "I believe we are inching towards that goal."

She narrowed her eyes. "You are a fool, Jack Robinson. If I have learned anything in all of my experience—experience that vastly outstrips yours, might I add—it's that when it comes to matters of the boudoir, women have all the power. It has been the way of things since Eve. All a woman must do is flash a bit of flesh, bat her eyes and crook her finger and the male, if he feels any attraction at all for her, will be in a puddle at her feet."

"Hmm," replied Jack, looking thoughtful, "I think being a puddle at your feet is something I would recall. And you flashed a reasonable amount of flesh my way, even before we took up with one another."

"Arrogant man," she scoffed. "You believed I was using all the weapons in my arsenal? What I employed against you was small potatoes. The most novice level of flirtation which I engage in with practically every man of my acquaintance. Of course you could resist me, but had I been trying in earnest to seduce you, you wouldn't have had a chance."

"Is that so?" He silently considered her words for several moments, watching her closely. Phryne could see a plan formulating behind his eyes and she wondered what she had set into motion. "I propose a wager then, Miss Fisher," said Jack, looking more mischievous than she'd ever seen him. "You are so confident in your skills of seduction. If you can bring me to my knees with your wiles, I'll allow you free rein of my case files for any murder you happen to be investigating from this point forward. If I get the better of you, however, you hand over...the Hispano, how about. What say you?"

The stakes were high. Excitingly so. He must be confident indeed. But then, so was she. Phryne leaned close and grasped the knot of his tie between her thumb and forefinger. "I'll take that bet."

He gave a little swallow and she saw just a flash of uncertainty in his dark blue eyes. "Good. Starting now. First to break and beg for relief loses."

"Excellent. This will be fun, Jack."

He shook his head smilingly. "Don't be silly, my dear. This will be brutal. This will be war. A battle of the sexes. I wish you all the luck."

She grinned coquettishly at him. "Thank you, Jack darling, but I will not need it."

It would be a challenge, but Phryne liked a good challenge. It was true that the inspector was more gifted than most men when it came to resisting feminine wiles. It was a bit of a fib that she had only used novice flirtation on him before she was finally able to reel him in only a few months ago. In reality she had tried every sultry look, every illicit touch, had arranged her body in the most tempting of ways, at least as far as decency allowed, and he had generally returned her efforts with a seemingly unaffected straight face.

Of course she knew now that there had feelings building behind that straight face. But he had rarely even let her catch him looking at her body, let alone drooling over it, as had so many men before him. He had come to her delicately and with intention, as he had just described. And the process had been quite delicious. Though frustrating, at times.

She recalled their ordeal at the chalet back in July, when she had practically handed him an invitation to visit her bedroom during the night, only to have him brush her off with "It's too great a risk, Miss Fisher," and make a swift exit.

She had comforted her pride by explaining it to herself, guessing he was speaking of risks beyond merely getting murdered in one's bed—risks of the heart, she had hoped. And his hurried departure had not been a lack of response to her enticements, but rather a need to remove himself from her presence before he gave in to his baser instincts.

Yes, there were certainly moments when she had managed to fluster him. That one time when he had arrived for dinner to find the lights dimmed and candles lit. She had spotted him nervously examining his surroundings, fiddling with a pair of chopsticks, clearly unaware that the table had been laid by Mr. Butler under the impression that it was Lin Chung that Phryne was expecting for dinner, not Jack. He clearly thought she had orchestrated a romantic evening for the two of them and had been markedly unsettled by the idea.

But that had been when their relationship was still young. More recently had been their encounter in the gentleman's club, when she had quite literally thrust her breast against his mouth in order to to maintain her cover. Yes, he had certainly been flustered then, but there hadn't been any time to relish in her victory or gauge how deep his reaction to the intimate contact had been.

And how could she forget the time she had attempted to dress him as Mark Antony? There was something about toying with his tie that seemed to press Jack's buttons. She remembered the bobbing of his Adam's apple as he'd swallowed nervously, attempting to dismiss her with a plea in his eyes. "If you really want a Roman soldier, I'll take it from here."

If she had decided to make certain demands of him in that moment, he would have no doubt succumbed and they could have moved things along much more quickly. She had been too lenient with him. But then again, he had technically still been married at the time, and she hadn't wanted being with her to be something he regretted or felt ashamed of.

But yes. She had held power over him in those moments, and even now that they had known each other intimately, and she no longer needed to exert that power, she would get the better of him again. It may even be easier now that he knew precisely what she could do to him. Of course, that knowledge went both ways.

Still, she knew that with all his defenses up, he would be a tough nut to crack. But Phryne had no qualms about playing dirty to win access to those case files—and to lure him back into her arms.

As part of her battle preparations, Phryne did not contact him at all for three days. Let some tension build, let him stew a bit. She had expected him come round after work at least by the third day, which had been his daily habit before the wager, but she did not hear from him at all. It would appear he was developing a strategy similar to her own.

Determined to take control of things, she telephoned him at the station on the afternoon of the fourth day with no contact and was happy to find he answered it himself.

"Hello, Jack. Come by for drinks tonight, will you? I need a consult."

"I am sure that you do, Miss Fisher. I'm eager to see what is troubling you." Sarcasm and seduction mingled in his voice, and the result was quite stimulating. She would let him think himself on top for the time being. He would be singing a different tune tonight.

Jack had prepared himself mentally, from the moment he had received Phryne's call, for what he would face tonight. He imagined her answering the door completely nude. He imagined her in any number of beautiful pieces of lingerie, dancing sensually for him like the minx that she was. He allowed his imagination to run rampant, exploring every carnal image of her he could summon until he was confident there was no possible way for her to surprise him tonight.

He was ready to do battle. He shrugged on his coat and placed his hat on his head, bidding Hugh a good evening before climbing into his motorcar and finally allowing himself to mull over the many weapons he might use against Phryne tonight.

He had a short debate with himself, then recalled each and every one of those lascivious images he had conjured in his office. Then, with only a twinge of embarrassment, he draped a handkerchief over his thigh and addressed himself quickly and efficiently with his hand. It may not guarantee his complete safety tonight, but it would make it that much more difficult for her to make him lose control entirely.

Once he was finished, he felt a moment of shame. Practicing self-abuse while sitting in his dark car outside the station was as good as a declaration of just how much control she had over him. But he wanted to get the better of her. Just this once. And he wanted that infernal car, too. If anything, he might be able to talk her into buying something with a few more safety features.

When he arrived on her stoop, the door was opened by Mr. Butler in his dressing gown, rather than Phryne, and Jack found himself smirking at her misstep. With an old man in his nightclothes being the first thing Jack saw, he had that much more time to get his head in the right place. His thoughts were anything but erotic as Mr. Butler said, "Miss Fisher is in the parlor, Inspector. If there's nothing else, I wish you a pleasant evening."

The jovial old fellow disappeared up the stairs and Jack helped himself to the parlor where Phryne was sitting, fully dressed in a simple gray silk frock, half-heartedly perusing a book.

Jack knew a trap when he saw one. For one thing, the Honorable Phryne Fisher did not wear gray. Black, perhaps, even dove, but never dull, dreary gray. And yet the silk draped pleasingly over her slender, graceful limbs, regardless of the drab color.

"Miss Fisher," he greeted, removing his hat and holding it in front of him between clasped hands.

She looked up dramatically, pretending she was noticing him for the first time. "Jack! You made it." She gestured to a faceted crystalline tumbler filled with two fingers of amber liquid, set beside his habitual spot. As if he was over for their routine post-case chat. She was trying to lure him in, give him a false sense of security. Well, it wouldn't work. He was onto her.

"Ah. Am I just here for a whiskey and a tête-à-tête?" He asked, stripping away his coat. Making a last minute decision, he removed his waistcoat and tie as well, unbuttoning his collar and rolling up his shirtsleeves in a way she had told him before that she liked.

"Mmm, yes," she agreed as she looked him over, her eyes hooded and feverish. "I was hoping we could be casual." She stood and walked behind him to the door, which she closed and latched. Not daring to look back at her, he took a seat in his usual spot, leaning back in the chair and sipping his whiskey.

It wasn't until it was too late, until the whisper of silk sliding over skin broke the silence, that he looked up.

Phryne Fisher was no longer wearing gray. She was no longer wearing much of anything.

Her nipples were enticing little points beneath the luxurious amethyst silk of her camiknickers and his mouth went dry at the sight of her. Her plump, luscious backside peeked out from beneath her lingerie as she took a few steps closer to him and he could hardly breathe. Suddenly his thoughts came only in choppy, panicked terms. He had to maintain his distance. Keep her at the other side of the room.

"Perhaps I should call Mr. Butler in to make us something more festive," he muttered desperately, sitting up straighter in his chair, knowing his voice didn't sound half as unaffected as he would have liked.

"Would you really like to be responsible for giving Mr. Butler an apoplexy?" she purred, toying with one of the straps of the undergarment. "I for one should not." She pursed her lips, staring very directly at him. "In any case, I sent everyone to bed early and told them they were not to enter the parlor under any circumstances, lest they see something they won't soon forget."

Her words sent a spectacular chill down his spine and he smoothed a hand down the back of his head, though his hair was not mussed. Yet.

He should not have allowed so many days to pass before seeing her. He had not been prepared for how the sight of her after even that small amount of time would affect him, and she was even lovelier than his imagination had been able to prepare him for.

Pull yourself together, man. Think of your pride. Think of that beautiful car.

In this moment, filling his hands with her bottom and pulling her flush against him seemed far more important than either his pride or winning her car. He took several calming breaths to steady himself.

It had been easier before. Before he knew the distinct flavor of her skin, the exact texture of her areolae beneath his tongue, the corrupt, unspeakable ecstasy of burying himself deep, deep inside of her.

But he knew those things now. And knowing them made it even harder to deny himself.

What had he been thinking, making this wager? He was a dimwit and a fool and he was going to be that drooling puppy she had described if he couldn't get a handle on himself.

"New knickers?" he commented, hoping his voice didn't sound as choked as it did to his own ears. "You know I like red on you better, but purple suits you well."

She smiled at him knowingly, then looked down to watch herself push one of her thumbs over a straining nipple. "Thank you, Jack. But this is nothing, I've just ordered this luscious little teddy from Paris, wait until you see—"

Jack fought to turn the tables on her but it was no easy task as his thoughts had turned just that quickly to mud. He cleared his throat, hoping to give strength to his voice. It still came out a little hoarse which probably worked to his advantage. "The whole point of lingerie, sweet Phryne, is to give a man the opportunity to momentarily visualize what is beneath it before whisking it off, forgotten on the floor, clearing the way for more worthwhile activities. Whether you get it from Paris or the Block Arcade matters not to me." As he spoke, he stood and walked assertively towards her until the points of his oxfords were inches away from her bare toes, his nose nearly brushing hers. He was going to regain control. He just had to try very hard not to look at her. And not to think about how she looked. At all.

He could tell he had her attention because she seemed to have forgotten what to say next, instead gazing hazily into his eyes, her lips parted slightly. He lifted his fingers to her breast, lightly pinching the nipple she had thumbed moments before, his body screaming with heat and lust at the sound of her needy gasp. It was a dangerous game he played. Tempting her affected him just as much, if not more.

"Silly man," she finally responded, gulping, "Lingerie is primarily meant to make a woman feel lovely, even if it is hidden beneath her clothes."

"Oh, I see," he graveled, twisting her nipple carefully and dipping his head to graze his teeth along the shell of her ear. "So you thought you'd strip down to your camiknicks just to feel lovely, is that it? You hadn't thought at all of my reaction?"

She didn't answer, and her hands came up beneath his arms to grasp him over the shoulders, anchoring herself against him. He thought her in the midst of a swoon, the battle won, but suddenly a warm, bare thigh insinuated itself between his legs, pressing deliciously against the very area he had been keeping at a purposeful distance from her. At the same time, one of her hands reached down to grasp his left buttock rather forcefully. He gasped out loud at the simultaneous sensations and released her as if scalded, backing up into his chair and dropping himself into it. A little shaken by the intensity of his reaction, he drained the tumbler of whiskey in a single fiery swallow.

"It's late," he muttered, trying to breathe normally. "I should be going." There was a roaring beast inside of him, demanding to be let out, not caring a whit about bets or pride or cars. All that beast cared about was throwing Phryne down onto the chaise, or even the floor if it was more expedient, and tearing the expensive purple silk she wore into many little pieces.

But he wasn't ready to wave the white flag just yet. They had only just begun. So his only choice was to retreat and remount the assault when he had his head together.

"But Jack," fussed Phryne, attempting to pout through her triumph. "You only just got here."

He was already gathering his jacket, waistcoat, and hat, but he spared a moment to give her just a little something, something he hoped would leave her wanting. He pressed a hard, slow kiss to her lips, tasting her deeply but not touching her with any other part of his body. When he pulled away, he flattered himself that there was a dazed, wanton look in her eyes.

"Good night, Phryne. Thank you, as always, for the nightcap."

And he removed himself from her presence as quickly as he could. As he rushed down her front steps he grudgingly tallied the score. Phryne: 1, Jack: 0. He would need to raise his game if he meant to defeat her.


	2. Double or Nothing

Jack was not going to give her much time to feel secure in her victory. In the space of a single day he had assembled his thoughts, carefully arranging the conditions of their next encounter in such a way that would leave her even weaker than usual against his charms. Or so he hoped. After giving away the upper hand at her house last night, he had learned that he must be on the offensive, particularly when doing battle on her home turf.

But they would not be on her home turf tonight.

The scheme had come to Jack on his long and less than comfortable drive home from her house the night before. He had been racking his brain, trying to imagine the perfect set of circumstances that would affect her the most.

And then it dropped into his lap, suddenly obvious. Phryne was the most stimulated—in all senses of the word—when she was working a case. This was no doubt the reason why so many men involved in her cases ended up in her bed. And, though it made him a little uneasy to admit it, it probably contributed in part to her attraction to him. She was ardent and alive when she was solving a murder, and Jack knew instinctively that there was a sexual component to that passion. As he was consistently by her side when she was in this heightened state, it was natural that some of those emotions would become blurred, that she would associate him with the thrill she felt when sleuthing.

Even though she probably didn't even know it herself, and would likely be shocked if he were to suggest it...yes, it was there. When they were together, when they were working a case, she was eager, energetic, fierce. If he could put her in that state of mind, where she hummed with that awareness and concentration, her senses alive with the urge to solve, he knew he could tease out the sexual energy hidden beneath those emotions. That was the chink in her armor. That was his way in. She would be more impulsive, more responsive, less guarded. If he put on a good enough show, she may not see through the ruse. But it would take a very good show indeed, for little got past her in the state of mind he planned to induce.

"Can I tempt you with a trip to the docks tomorrow night?" he asked her over the telephone on the evening following their initial skirmish. He hoped his proposal would catch her by surprise. "We think the Irish mob might have commandeered one of the warehouses and are using it to conceal contraband. I could use your sharp eye if you're in the mood for a stakeout."

He knew her attraction to potential peril would not allow her to turn down his offer, even if she was suspicious of his motives.

"Really, Jack? Do you really think you're prepared to be trapped all alone in a dark motorcar with me?" She used her most seductive purr, but now that he was in control of things he was able to brush it off.

"I think I can manage."

"Better than last time, I hope. All right, I'll play along. Pick me up at eight?"

"Nine," he corrected assertively, careful to keep command of all the details. "Dress sensibly, Phryne, in case we have reason to pursue on foot."

"I always dress sensibly, Jack. You won't be disappointed."

But despite the insinuation behind her words, he knew he was safe enough. Even concealed in a motorcar at the deserted docks, she would be forced to dress out of respect for public decency. She would need to rely on more than bare flesh if she hoped to win this round.

"No, darling," crooned Jack, his voice like honey. "You are many things, but disappointing has never been one of them."

"See you soon," she cooed back, ending the call with a little kiss into the receiver.

The trap was laid. But Phryne Fisher would not make easy prey.

He was a little taken aback when she answered the door the next evening. She looked...pretty. Not enticing or flamboyant or irresistible but wore a knee-length frock of creamy linen, the bodice and hem embroidered exquisitely with salmon-pink posies. As always the outfit was impeccably coordinated, her velvet cape and Mary Janes matching the salmon embroidery precisely. The color brought out the pink of her cheeks and made her look like a girl. The studded barrette that swept one side of her hair behind her ear intensified the effect.

It wasn't what he had expected at all, yet it was nearly as dangerous as her purple lingerie. She was captivating, and stamping out the urge to reach for her went against every instinct in his body. But Jack had meticulously designed tonight's scheme and he was determined to execute it to the letter, hoping to knock her down a few pegs in the process.

"Conservative, Miss Fisher," he spoke after examining her thoroughly, so as not to let any aspect of her catch him off guard later on. "I'm astonished."

"You said to dress sensibly," she commented cheekily.

He frowned at her. "I meant to dress in preparation for possible physical activity. You look more like you're off to church."

She raised an immaculate eyebrow. "Oh, my. What sort of physical activity, Jack?"

"Not the kind you're hoping. Come along, the baddies will be crawling out to play soon."

He offered his elbow and she took it, pressing her breast against his arm. Jack took every opportunity to touch her along the way to the car, taking her by the waist as they stepped off the curb, stroking down her back as he opened the door for her, grasping her fingers to help her step up and into her seat.

She pressed her lips together in a grin of amusement. "Thank you, Jack. So very...attentive."

She was suspicious. But then, she would be. "You just look so fetching tonight. And you already know I don't find it easy to keep my hands off of you."

Her smile turned cat-like and she nodded in acceptance, allowing him to close the door. He made his way to the other side of the motorcar at a measured, leisurely pace.

"Tell me, Jack," said Phryne as he slid into the driver's seat. She scooted towards him until their thighs were pressed together. "What made you decide to bring me along? Shouldn't you have some police friends at your side?"

More suspicion. But he was ready for it.

"To be honest, this is more of an exploratory mission. A hunch, really," said Jack. "The commissioner won't allocate police resources to the case until I have something firm, until I can produce solid proof that the Irish mob is sniffing around Melbourne. So I've put together some information from various sources around the city and from what I can gather the docks are the place to be tonight. But staking out the docks all on one's own in the dead of night is frightfully boring. It's too easy to fall asleep when you're alone." He gave her a light, condescending pat on the knee. "So I thought, I'll bet Phryne would like to join me. Give her something to do."

He knew precisely the withering look she was giving him even though it was dark inside the car. "I have more than enough to do, Jack. But you sounded like you could use the company. So I took pity." With those words, he felt her warm hand rest softly on his thigh, settling well above the knee. It sent a spasm of awareness up his leg, but he was prepared for this too. He hastily summoned the images he had prepared, the most lust-inhibiting images he could fathom, and let them float across his mind as she caressed him. Mr. Butler cleaning the silverware. Mrs. Stanley in her nightie. Crying infants. The way Elsie Tizzard smelled when she was on one of her benders. Cec and Bert dressed as Roman soldiers. Those unfortunate shoes Hugh had given Dot for her birthday.

The flood of chastening images knocked the wind right out of his sails, bringing his arousal down to a much safer level, and he began to hum comfortably to himself as they made their way down the road.

She leaned closer and began to sing the words of the song he was humming, her voice smooth and intimate at his ear. "How glad the many millions...of Annabelles and Lillians would be...to capture me..."

Not to be outdone, he casually joined in with her. "But you had such persistence, you wore down my resistance, I fell...and it was swell…"

His lack of response to her efforts must have fazed her, for her hand began to drift higher. "But oh, my heart grew active when you...came into view…" Her voice was a caress, a luxury. Not wishing to find out just how far she would let her touch wander, he plucked her hand away by the wrist and returned it to her own lap.

"Try and control yourself, Miss Fisher," he said smoothly. "This is not a social outing. We have business to attend to tonight."

She gave a frustrated sigh and threw up her hands in slight exasperation, letting them fall back to her thighs with a soft smack. "Oh, I don't like this, Jack! It reminds me of before, of how badly I wanted you and how immune you were to any charms I threw your way. This wager is rubbish."

Jack grinned, knowing a change of tacts when he saw it. But he would not be plied with sympathy either. "I was never immune to you, Phryne. And you can, of course, concede any time."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you!" she laughed, sliding languidly back to the other side of the car. "No, Jack, I don't think I'll let you off that easily."

"Good," he replied, and he meant it.

A few moments later Jack was easing the motorcar into a nice shadowy corner off the street with a reasonably good view of the warehouse in question, which was abandoned in truth. A small fire last month had caused some minor structural damage and it had been deemed unsafe for use until repairs could be made. It was not in fact occupied by the Irish mob, nor anyone else. But that was beside the point.

"Tuck in for a long night," said Jack. "And keep your eyes open."

He let the next hour drift by with light conversation and a bit of companionable silence. During the silence Jack plotted, and he suspected Phryne was doing the same. She didn't try to touch him again, though.

That would be remedied soon enough. Oswald should be turning up at any moment now.

As if on cue, the lights of another motorcar sprayed around the corner, making Phryne sit up a little straighter. "Who's that?"

"I don't know," he replied, sliding easily across the seat to her side of the car under the ruse of peering out her window. To see properly, it was completely necessary for him to rest a hand atop her thigh and press her back against the seat with his body, slightly less gently than he might have if his entire library of case files weren't at stake.

"Jack, you're crushing me," she complained, although she didn't sound very fussed about it.

Jack swore dramatically. "He's getting out of the car. Quickly, quickly, come here."

And without giving her any time to think, his mouth was on hers. He rose up on one knee to gain some height and swept her hard into his arms, crushing her as close as the tight quarters in the motorcar would allow.

There would only be a few seconds before Oswald appeared at their window and Jack used them. With one hand he hiked her skirt up to her waist, grasping one of her silken thighs and draping her leg over his lap. He kissed her like he'd never kissed her before, using his mouth to liberate every iota of desire and love he felt for her, pouring his heart into her at the place where their mouths were joined.

She wasn't resisting him—she hadn't even tried to. Her fingers clutched at his clothes, pulling him by the lapels as if it was possible for him to kiss her any harder, opening her lips to him with a hot little gasp he felt in the deep, dark places of his body, places that he might never have discovered if not for Phryne. He used his tongue to learn her mouth, a lesson he had attended many times before, yet each time she felt new. And this time was different even still. There was something reckless and feral in their kiss, something new and untried and yet so heartbreakingly warm and familiar.

He breathed her in, feeling lightheaded as he folded his senses over the complex smell of her, white jasmine and vetiver and Phryne.

When the tap came at the window, Jack felt as if his insides were making a return journey from a very distant star. Both of them were panting and agitated, Jack's hand shaking a little as he reached out to lower the glass. He kept Phryne pinned where she was, but she didn't seem to mind.

"Can we help you?" huffed Jack, squinting as Oswald shone his torch in their faces.

"I thought I'd find a couple of teenagers in here. What are the likes of you two doing, necking in a dark motorcar? Tired of the wife, are we? This is no kind of place to be found loitering."

"Forgive us, Constable. Detective Inspector Robinson of City South," he rummaged in his back pocket before producing and presenting his credentials. "We are staking out this warehouse and thought you were a suspect, thus we er—improvised a bit of activity. For cover."

"Cover, was it?" asked Oswald, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "And that, my friends, is why women should be kept out of the police force. Too distracting."

Jack glared at his colleague for the unscripted comment.

"Yes, that's the reason," Phryne drawled, her voice routinely sarcastic though her heart still beat madly against his shoulder. Thankfully, she didn't seem in the mood to argue.

"Well," grumbled Oswald, playing his role to perfection. "I won't get in the way of your, erm, stakeout. Be wary, though, we've had some muggings and such 'round here recently. Keep your weapon close."

Jack gulped quietly, his face growing hot. He was brandishing more than one weapon at the moment.

Oswald began to walk away then stopped, turned back. "Oh, and Inspector? You've got a little something, just all round here—" he made a wide circular gesture around his mouth.

Jack suppressed a laugh. His face was no doubt smeared with Phryne's lipstick. He snatched the handkerchief out of his pocket and addressed it directly, flicking two fingers towards the constable in a casual salute.

Jack raised the window back up and replaced his left hand on her bare right thigh. They sat quietly together, facing each other, still halfway embracing. The energy of their kiss still hung heavily in the air, which seemed to pop with electricity. They watched each other but did not let their eyes meet. Carefully, slowly, Jack altered his touch. He rotated his palm on her leg so his fingers were pointing towards their goal, then he turned the hand over and let his knuckles graze her, moving up, up, stopping just short of his target.

Strangely enough, the heat and humidity he found between her thighs, inches from her center, reminded him of his school days, and he found himself categorizing the climates of her body in Köppen's terms. From her knees to midthigh—a mild, pleasant humid continental. But the further north his hand ventured, the hotter her skin...humid subtropical, tropical rainforest, and eventually he would find a delicious tropical monsoon—his favorite climate of all, one which would require a certain other appendage for proper exploration.

But not yet. Tonight was about teasing her. About working her into a frenzy. About denying her what she really wanted and bringing her a step closer to begging him for the relief that would declare the wager won in his favor.

She wasn't stopping him. She was going to let him. His neck felt hot as his fingers swept under silk to trace the moist cleft between her fevered thighs. She released a small, sweet little gasp in his ear and he knew he had her. He found a spot he knew she favored and applied just a little bit of pressure. Her hips gave a little jerk towards him and he leaned ever closer, anchoring himself against the seat with his other arm so that he could better control his touch. Slowly, he teased the delicate flesh in a little circle, increasing his speed by degrees and watching her pleasure climb in concert with his motions.

Her soft gasps became little cries, and every time she hissed out his name he thought he might combust, right there in her arms.

But he was focused. He watched her with precise attention, monitoring the way her legs twitched, the way her head rocked from side to side, the way her hand clamped tighter and tighter around his forearm.

He changed his touch just slightly, to another place he knew her to be fond of, and her eyes flew open with the unexpected pleasure of it. "Jack, yes! There, right there, please don't stop!" His fingers worked her unflaggingly until she went silent, holding even her breath, which Jack knew meant she was very close indeed.

Then he did something unforgiveable. He removed his hand.

She made a distressing sound, as if he had stolen the air from her lungs. "Jack!" she keened, her voice throbbing with frustration, eyes dazed.

"Quiet!" he hissed dramatically, calling on every bit of his theater training to look convincingly tense and alert as he pulled entirely away from her, his eyes staring into the blackness as if he had seen something. "I think I saw a torch."

Phryne moaned in frustration, "It's probably just that damned constable again!" But she leaned forward despite herself to scan the dark buildings in front of them. She shook her head and reached out for him. "It's quiet as the dead, Jack. Please…"

That little whispered plea tugged at his heart, but he was committed. "I'm going to have a look. Stay in the car."

"I don't think I will," countered Phryne, slowly coming back to herself. She would kill him for this, the heartless, cruel, villainous scoundrel. "What are you planning, just to waltz in there and arrest them for trespassing?" While she spoke she was stepping out of the car after him, compulsively checking the chamber of her gun to make sure all the bullets were present before stowing it back in her handbag.

He looked intensely engaged as he switched on his own torch, lighting the path so they could at least see where they were stepping. The sound of water was all around them, lapping lazily at the docked boats. If there was anyone sneaking around, it was unlikely she or Jack would be able to hear them.

It was very hard to ignore the quivering pangs from her thwarted climax, which radiated out from her womb to the tips of her fingers and toes. It was hardly the first time she had been denied completion by a man, but it would certainly be the first time at Jack's hands, who had proved himself to be an attentive and generous lover. But she was not a flimsy little flower to be immobilized by her lack of satisfaction. She would keep up with him all the same, and if he believed otherwise he would learn his mistake quickly.

"I'm not going to arrest anyone. I just want to see if we can get close enough to overhear anything."

"You had better pray," advised Phryne, her voice icy, "That there are some criminals in that warehouse. Because if there are not, you will ."

He looked back at her sheepishly. "I apologize for the timing, just now," he said, not sounding nearly sorry enough. "But we are here on police business first, and cannot allow personal, er, activities to distract us."

Phryne wanted to garrote him.

She was also growing more suspicious of him by the minute. Surely this entire undertaking was not just a ruse, surely he was not creative enough to come up with such an elaborate scheme with the sole purpose of furthering his interests in the wager. But the events of this evening had played so perfectly into his hands it seemed on purpose. A soul-shaking kiss interrupted by that nettlesome constable. Then his hand...between her legs...pushing her to the very brink—and he sees a torch. At the precise worst moment in the history of all things, ever, he sees a torch.

Phryne kicked a rock in her path with rather a lot of violence, sending it skidding pell-mell down the ramp and into the water. She had been aiming for the back of his beautiful, stupid head.

Jack Robinson would pay for tonight, whether her torture had been planned or not. When she was through with him he would be on his knees, clasping his hands in supplication as he begged her for her mercy. He may have tied the score, but it would be both the first and very last point he ever won from her.

He turned back to her again, this time a boyish grin on his face, and she knew she was not going to like whatever he was about to say. "I told you though, didn't I?" he asked, a self-satisfied chuckle in his voice. "Like putty."


	3. Dealer's Choice

Phryne parked the Hispano-Suiza around the corner so as not to alert Jack to her presence. She stroked her fingers over the honed bittings of the brass key in her pocket. He had given it to her in case of emergencies, and in Phryne's mind, this qualified.

After their encounter at the docks, during which no criminals were caught and Phryne had not precisely come out on top, she had resolved to put more thought into her efforts to seduce Jack. Not just to win the wager. It had been a solid week now—a solid week of not once waking up beside him, of not once feeling the delicious slide of his naked skin against hers, of not once crying out his name as he flung her gasping into an ocean of ecstasy.

She gave a little shudder just at the thought of it. No, the wager was playing second fiddle to her now. At this point, gaining access to his case files did not matter half so much to Phryne as gaining access to his trousers.

But it would be a slow, deliberate process. The same sort of process by which he had won her. She had not lost the desire to prove that she held sexual power over him, and she would not rest until she got him to admit it. After all, he had proven his power over her in a police motorcar only a few nights ago. She had to match him, at the very least. But beating him was preferable.

She strode around the corner to Jack's Edwardian bungalow, turning his key in the lock until she earned a satisfying thunk from the bolt. She had helped him pick out the darling little spot a few months earlier. Jack had grown tired of the tiny flat he'd been letting and had wished to live a bit closer to Phryne. It had been a bit neglected by the former occupants, an elderly couple who had moved in with their children, and he had purchased it at a bargain. Restoring the little cottage to its former beauty had become a project for Jack and Phryne when they weren't solving murders. Jack had refused to let her donate any money to the project, his sense of manly pride forbidding it, so Phryne contributed what she could with her own two hands. So far, Phryne flattered herself, they had done a rather bang-up job with it.

Walking inside, she was greeted by that delicious and familiar smell which filled her head with Jack—leather and lemon, musty books, aging wood. She was glad to see he had left his furniture in the way she had arranged it last time she had visited, an activity that had stirred up quite a debate. She had insisted that the blue Queen Anne armchair, handed down from his mother, would serve far better in the sitting room than in his bedroom, where it had been used to catch discarded clothing and other bits of clutter. Jack, who was accustomed to arranging his furniture for himself without consideration for seating guests, had resisted the change—but Phryne had brought him around in the end. Now, along with his leather sofa and matching easy chair, he could seat at least five around the fireplace. All she had to do now was convince him to invite company.

Realizing that she had already become distracted, Phryne smiled to herself and shook her head. She was not here to ponder interior decorating—the project of luring Jack into bed was far more pressing, and he could be home at any moment.

She dropped the carpet bag she had brought along onto Jack's dining table, pulling out a pair of pillar candles which she lit and placed on his mantle before lighting a fire in the grate, filling the room with a warm, flickering glow. She thought he would like the way the light glanced off the glass beads that adorned her sleeveless sea-green dress. In her head she could hear the beads rustling against each other as his hand slid up her leg, pushing the fabric with it.

Heat fanned out from the place on her thigh where she had imagined Jack's hand, but she did not push her lust away. She wanted him to see it, to see clearly on her face how fiercely she wanted him.

But there was more to do. Returning to her bag, she withdrew the tins of cheese and jam and crusty bread Mr. Butler had prepared for their "picnic." These were followed by a bottle of Cabernet and an additional tin of Jack's favorite chocolate biscuits. She uncorked the wine and poured it liberally into two glasses, deciding she may as well allow it some time to breathe.

Now all there was to do was wait.

It was nearly an hour before she heard his key turn the lock. The sound of the door creaking open sent a frisson of electricity across the surface of her skin, and Phryne had to cross her legs and squeeze them tightly together to relieve the sensations rioting between her thighs. Just the sight of his straight, sturdy form passing through the door was enough to make her weak.

He closed the door behind him and peeked uncertainly into the semi-dark sitting room, apparently trying to understand why there was firelight in his supposedly empty house. "Phryne?" he called out as he spotted the shape of her, now stretched languidly across his sofa.

"There you are," she hummed, rising fluidly to her feet to greet him. "I thought you'd never get home."

"It's only half past eight," he replied, dropping his briefcase in the usual place by the door while he kicked off his shoes, sliding them to the left of the case with a foot.

This was becoming a ritual, and Phryne was losing hope that she could ever cure him. She plucked up his shoes by the heels and took his briefcase in her other hand, depositing them both into the coat closet where they belonged.

"I've brought you some dinner, if you're hungry. Nothing too elegant," she assured him, gesturing to the table where she had laid out the tins of food.

"Phryne. What are you doing here?" He asked a bit belatedly. His face was guarded, his tone skeptical. But Phryne would make sure that didn't last.

"I'm feeding you, you daft man."

"Thought you'd catch me off guard, did you?" he questioned, doffing his coat and tossing it over the banister. Phryne gathered that up as well and sent it to join his briefcase and shoes.

"I did mean for it to be a surprise," she admitted. "But I'm not here to take advantage of you. I just wanted to have a nice meal with you. Scout's honor." She finished her statement with a sly, pressed grin.

"Well, that's lucky. I'm famished," replied Jack, immediately moving to sit at the table.

She was struck by an idea. "Oh, actually, I thought we could have a bit of a picnic and stretch out on the sofa."

Without waiting for his agreement, she began gathering tins and taking them into the sitting room, where she placed them on the coffee table.

Jack brought the wine and placed it with the tins on the table before dropping onto the sofa, the cushion letting out a burst of air in protest to his sudden weight. Phryne slathered a piece of bread with jam and brie and had handed it to him before doing the same for herself. She lowered herself daintily onto the couch beside him, hooking her ankles together and folding her legs to one side. Even in the darkness, she could see him sweeping the slopes of her calves with hungry eyes. "Was it a difficult day?" she inquired sweetly, sucking a smear of jam from her thumb.

His eyes grew wide before he averted them, as if she had done something truly indecent. "Not any more than usual," he sighed, chewing thoughtfully. "No murders, nothing even half so interesting. Just neverending mountains of paperwork. Hand me that wine, will you?"

Phryne obliged, fanning her fingers around the glass so he had no choice but to touch her as he took it from her. The brief contact set her nerves into skittering awareness, and Jack must have felt it too—his eyes flew to hers for a moment only to dart away quickly. But not fast enough to keep from betraying his charade of indifference.

Phryne smiled gleefully. Every time he laid hands on her, he made her feel like she was experiencing the touch of a man for the first time. It was fascinating and exhilirating and she wanted nothing more than to slap the wine and food out of his hands and climb on top of him.

There would be time for that soon enough. He would require a little more beguiling first.

"This is nice," he commented, holding up the wine. The heat between them abated only slightly.

"Yes, I do enjoy a good Cab. I believe that one comes from a vineyard here in Victoria."

"Heavens," Jack teased, taking another sip. "You own wine that was not imported from France? I am stunned, Miss Fisher."

"I'm trying to branch out," she replied, her tone light and playful. She watched his face in the firelight, the quivering flames casting shadows across his features. She stroked him with her gaze, following his tidy hairline down over his ear and strong jaw. She admired his kind blue eyes with their pale lashes, which he kept lowered as he pretended not to notice her watching him. Next came his noble, slightly upturned nose. She stared lingeringly at his lovely, uniquely shaped mouth, imaginging herself running her tongue slowly, achingly over that stern lower lip.

A streak of fire raked her from navel to knees the more she looked at him, and she wasn't sure how much longer she could keep her own desire in check. She rose up and knee-walked over to him, thrilling at the way his eyebrows rose as he looked her up and down, leaning back slightly while he grasped for some means to keep her at bay. She settled beside him, very close indeed, propping her bent knees on his thigh and bracing her hands on his stomach and shoulder as she dipped her face close.

"Jack," she half-whispered, shivering at the sensation of his hot breath gliding over her fevered skin. His eyes darted over her features like a bumblebee at a bouquet, looking panicked as her fingers reached to undo the knot of his tie and tug apart the buttons at the top of his collar. She dragged the pads of her fingers over the newly exposed skin, thumbing his Adam's apple and whimpering softly as she felt his throat convulse beneath her touch. "Jack," she repeated.

"Yes?" he rumbled. The sound of his deep, sure voice did evil things to her nether regions. Her index finger found a notch at the side of his knee and began to make little patterns with her nails upwards from the spot, mapping a fiery trail up the inside of his thigh. She wished his wool trousers were not quite so thick, but his breath came quicker all the same.

She touched the corner of his mouth, where a speck of jam lingered. "You've got a little spot here. No, I'll get it for you," she purred, leaning in before he could escape her and touching the spot ever so carefully with her tongue. She felt his large hands, which he had been keeping locked at his sides, fly to her body, one clamping around her upper arm while the other clutched upwards at her back, pressing desperately into her spine.

"Phryne," he sighed. It was not a protest or a plea. It sounded more like pure appreciation. She pulled back and rubbed her thumb over the spot she had licked clean.

"There we are. Right as rain."

His heavy-lidded eyes were fixed on her, his lips parted slightly, his breathing fast and and shallow. Phryne snickered to herself. Who was putty now?

With a satisfied grin she slithered out of his arms, feeling chilled at the loss of his firm touch. Unbidden, an image sprang into her mind of two long, thick fingers sliding fast and ruthless until they were deep, deep inside of her, and she let out a quiet, choked gasp. Her first instinct was to turn away and hide it from him, but no...it was to her advantage to let him see. She let every ounce of lust and need she was feeling fill her eyes, then practically blasted him with it. He seemed unable to break their gaze, even as he tried to subtly adjust his trousers, tugging at the fabric to relieve the building pressure at his groin.

"Mr. Butler made your favorite biscuits," she murmured, finally turning away and retrieving the tin from the dining table. She brought it back to the sitting room, tucking herself back into his side and popping off the top of the tin. Peeling back the wax paper, she withdrew a biscuit and held it to his lips.

Not breaking their gaze, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist and closed his mouth around the treat, including her thumb and forefinger in the bite. He did not release her as he chewed and swallowed the mouthful of chocolate. Then he grasped and straightened the fingers that had fed him, bringing them to his lips and sucking away the crumbs. Her heart was already rampaging inside her ribs, but when he began to scrape the pads of her fingers with his teeth she thought it might burst out of her chest completely. She let out an ardent little cry and sank her other hand into the hair at the back of his head, making a fist around the strands and tugging gently as pleasure shot up her arm from the place where his mouth was touching her.

Unable to repress her desperation any longer, she rose up and straddled the thigh closest to her, settling into a good position before she began to rock herself against the hard muscles there. She sighed heavily at the relief it brought to the searing, throbbing ache at her center.

"Christ," he hissed in surprise at her sudden boldness, his big hands clamping around her hips and bearing her down even harder against his muscled leg. She threw back her head and released the moan that had been building in her throat. She had left off her undergarments and the rasping wool of his trousers was doing wicked, exquisite things to her delicate flesh. Her dampness would no doubt be seeping through to his skin soon. The thought of that licked flames up her torso, and she used one hand to hastily tug the dress down from her shoulders, grasping the back of his head and compelling his lips against her straining nipple. Obligingly, he sealed his mouth around her and drew hard on her yearning flesh, causing her hips to buck at an increasingly frantic pace. He would not deny her this time. She was so close to her release, and she would make sure he could not get away. If he left her wanting again she was quite sure it would be the absolute end of Phryne Fisher.

But he showed no sign of winding down. He rolled her nipple carefully between his teeth until an ecstatic wail escaped from her and he switched to shower some attention on the other. The harsh smell of burning wood intertwining with their perspiration, the sweet, fruity jam on his breath and the scent of her own arousal made her feel faint and fragile in his arms. Unable to stand the dual sensations of his mouth at her breast and his thigh clamped hard between her own, she buried her face at his neck, inhaling deeply as she pulled back the open collar of his cotton shirt and sunk her teeth into the sensitive skin there. He sent a low, choked cry into her ear, removing a hand from her writhing hips to take a fistful of her hair. The pain-pleasure of the tugging at her scalp sent her toppling into a violent climax, wave after wave of euphoria breaking over her like the sea surging against rocks in a storm. It was brutal and heart-bursting and she gasped for breath at his neck for what seemed like hours as she gathered up the pieces of herself and tried to put them to rights.

At length, Jack took her face in his hands and brought her up to look at him, sweeping her dampened fringe to one side as he looked at her. The expression on his face made her feel like she could do it all over again, so potent was the raw, fiendish, carnal need in his gaze.

"Sweet God in Heaven, Phryne Fisher—"

She silenced him with her open, needy mouth, pushing her tongue deep enough to caress his molars and squeezing the muscles of her thighs around his, relishing in the echoing pangs of pleasure it sent shivering across her skin. She reached down a curious hand to test the impact of her wild display and was gratified to find him stiff and hot beneath her hand. Earning a giddy breath of desire from him, accompanied by the gentle bucking of his hips, she used the same hand to reach back and explore the spot she had made on his trousers.

"Dear me," she crooned into his ear, pinching the damp fabric between her fingers. "I'm afraid I've absolutely defiled your trousers. Let me help you out of them."

She reached for his fastenings, purposefully brushing against his length as she did so, but he hastily reached down and seized her hands in his own. Their eyes met and he swallowed hard. She watched in dismay as cold clarity spilled over the dark lust in his eyes and he blinked as if coming out of a vision.

"Phryne," he rasped, his face strained as he struggled to regain control. "It's been a very long day. I think I'll just go to bed early."

She laughed heartily at his folly. "It's over, Jack. Come now, don't be a fool. Take me to bed, at once. I command it."

It was the wrong thing to say, for she had poked at his pride. She should not have declared victory so soon. Their activities had clouded her mind. Now he was gently sliding her off his lap, getting to his feet.

"Command all you like, my love, but I am not quite ready to bow in surrender. I have some fight left in me yet. Can I offer you a ride home? Or shall I walk you to your car?"

She thought about moving in for another kiss, certain that if she could just get her hands on him once again she would change his mind. But she found her excitement ratcheted to such fierce heights; the thought of what he might have in store for her next stirred her even more than the desire to triumph over him. There had already existed such an electric passion between them, but this wager had sent it climbing to such astronomical levels that she wasn't quite ready to descend back to earth just yet.

"I'm parked just round the corner," she conceded, still considering herself the winner as she had managed to obtain some relief for herself while poor Jack's situation remained quite rigid.

He followed her to her car, keeping a few paces behind so as not to reignite things. He opened her door for her, but before he could slip away she caught him by the front of his shirt and pulled him close, standing on tiptoe to catch his earlobe between her teeth.

"Bonne nuit, sweet Jack. I am shivering with anticipation to see what you have in store for me," she whispered, punctuating her words with a soft kiss to the notch of his jaw.

"I daresay you will not be disappointed," he replied, though his voice sounded a little weak. She released him and slid into the car, blowing him a kiss before driving off into the night, leaving him wanting but determined in her wake.


	4. Poker Face

"Too dowdy," sighed Phryne, regarding her reflection in the mirror with skepticism.

Dot eyed the skillfully beaded flapper dress that adorned her mistress, unable to support Miss Fisher's objections. The frock was nothing short of an accomplishment, made of chartreuse velvet with glass beads of jade and marmalade sewn in an intricate geometric design that began at the neckline and flared out to encompass the entire skirt. Beyond the impressiveness of the garment's construction, the amount of skin it showed, in Dot's mind, forbade it from qualifying as dowdy. Even with the beaded fringe that fell from the hem, she could see Phryne's knees quite plainly, and that was to say nothing of her décolletage.

No, this was not a dowdy dress. And Dot said as much out loud.

But Phryne had but a single goal in mind, and that was to send Jack's beautiful jaw plummeting to the floor. They had kept things depressingly tame in the two weeks since their little escapade in Jack's sitting room. Celibacy was beginning to wear hard on Phryne, and she needed something that would speed things along. The beaded dress, while pretty, was not up to such a task, leaving far too much to the imagination. She wanted to let Jack see in precise detail what he was missing. "No, no, I think the new one from House of Fleuri, that gloriously modern little number in aubergine?"

Dot stared at Phryne, knowing exactly which dress she meant. "But Miss...it's a dinner party. At your aunt's."

Phryne ticked an eyebrow. "Yes? And?"

Dot let out a resigned sigh and went to retrieve the dress. She emerged from the closet a moment later with a thin length of silk charmeuse in her arms, a garment that to Dot seemed more like a fancy nightgown than evening wear. Swallowing her personal misgivings, she helped Phryne out of the rejected flapper dress and went to hang it back in the closet while Phryne discarded her underthings.

For this was not a gown beneath which a lady could wear much of anything. It was held up by twisted straps, no more than an inch wide, and plunged both in back and front, hugging the hips and buttocks before flaring into luxurious gathers at the thigh. Undergarments were not an option.

Phryne found the hem and slipped her arms inside, lifting the gown over her head and letting it cascade like water over her body. Dot came to help her adjust it, and Phryne knew by the look of disapproval on her companion's face that she had found just the right dress. The plum-colored charmeuse was heavenly against her skin, and Phryne turned to examine herself again in the mirror.

She clapped her hands together in triumph. "Oh, yes, Dot. This is the one!"Her eyes raked over her reflection as she ran her hands over the shimmering silk. The fabric caught the light in an almost loving way, declaring the lines of her body with a boldness that suited her purpose well. Her hip bones were two defined points against the material, as were her breasts...she would need a bit of cellulose tape, as even Phryne drew the line at sporting visible nipples in Aunt P's dining room. But that would hardly be a bother. She couldn't wait to dab the drool off Jack's face when he saw her.

"A brooch, don't you think, Dot? At the bottom of the neckline, between the breasts? It will add a nice flare."

Dot knew better than to protest. "That diamond fan-shaped one would be pretty, with the little pearl drop dangling off the bottom?"

"Ah, yes, the Cartier! Now you're thinking, Dot," agreed Phryne.

Dot went to retrieve it, pinning it carefully at the point of the V where the two edges of the neckline met, just above Phryne's sternum. Phryne admired the effect in the mirror. The gown certainly skirted the edge of decency, and it filled her with a delicious sense of power.

"Perfect," decided Phryne, smiling at her forbearing companion. "Now all I need is a drink. Send Mr. B up with a gin and tonic, will you?"

Tonight, Jack had a plan. Tonight, he would find a way to bend her to his will. She had taken her pleasure before, but she would not be able to findsatisfaction until he was buried inside her. Tonight, he would remind her of that.

They had not avoided each other's company over the last two weeks, but each encounter had been chaste, conducted either in public or in Phryne's parlor with doors thrown open and a member or two of her staff nearby.

It had seemed a mutual decision, to let things simmer a bit following their encounter on Jack's sofa, which had not had a clear winner or loser but had left him scathed, white-hot from the inside out with excruciating need. The memory of her rocking herself against his leg had fed his dreams nightly, unrelenting. Except in his dreams, he did not sit idle, allowing Phryne her one-sided pleasure. He lifted her into his arms and tossed her onto his bed, or sometimes had simply rolled her onto her back right there on the sofa, demonstrating all the ways in which his tongue was preferable to his trouser leg. In most of his dreams, she had a few tricks to show him with her own tongue as well.

Such dreams had stiffened his resolve, but not in a way that would win the wager for him. No...his longing for her was sharpened to a dangerous point, and Jack was not certain how much more he could take.

He had decided that Aunt Prudence's dinner party would provide the perfect opportunity to end their little standoff. Phryne would not expect it, not under the watchful eye of the beloved old harridan. But Jack had clever, quiet hands.

Even better, he predicted that the forbidden setting would fuel her desire...if he could just sneak her into some dark corner, the possibility of being caught would almost certainly trigger Phryne's attraction to danger. If he was lucky, it would stimulate her enough to do most of the work for him. The situation would benefit him further by dampening his own desire—Jack preferred to take his pleasure in perfect privacy, and the semi-public setting would help him keep his head on straight. Or so he hoped.

He drove to her house in the dark, mentally listing the things he had to prepare himself for before arriving. One—an unforeseeably dangerous dress. Two—that perfect blend of French perfume and Phryne. 3—the luscious lines of her neck when she stretched up to look at him. Four—a low neckline, and that delicious slice of shadow it would create between her breasts. Five—

No, it was better if he didn't get to number five. He pulled into her drive, gulping back his anticipation and trying to smother it with calm. It would not do for him to arrive to Mrs. Stanley's with his trousers in a predicament.

He approached the door and tapped at the stained glass window with a single knuckle, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as he waited. Within seconds Mr. Butler had swung the door open, but Jack remained frozen in the doorway, transfixed. For Phryne had chosen that very moment to bestow her exquisite presence on the staircase.

She descended the stairs like she had been dressed by none other than her fairy godmother, and for a moment Jack thought she must still be wearing her peignoir. But no, her jewels declared her dressed for dinner. His eyes grew wide as he adjusted to this reality.

The gown she wore reached the floor and was elegant but simple—free of embroidery, pleats, flounces, and the like. Just fabric, seams, and Phryne. It was constructed of the most exquisite material, satin or silk or some such expensive nonsense, made for the specific purpose of making men weak. It was soft and glossy and somewhat similar to the color of eggplant, though it didn't feel right to compare such an exquisite shade to a vegetable. The color was a delicious contrast to her pale complexion and the fabric floated over her body like a second skin, the skirt splitting open in the front as she walked to reveal white legs.

The material clung to her jealously, exposing every dip and curve of her figure—the fact that it lay smooth and taut across her thighs insisted that she wore nothing underneath it at all. The sweet swells of her breasts were peeking out from the slippery silk, but the shadow he had imagined was eliminated entirely by the plunge of the neckline, which exposed her nearly to the breastbone. She had punctuated the dip with a small, simple brooch that seemed to taunt him, daring him to let his gaze linger in that very dangerous place.

He gulped then, remembering Mr. Butler, and attempted to disguise his resounding admiration. "Evening, Mr. B. Good evening, Miss Fisher. You look astonishing as always."

He feared his attempt at nonchalance had come off rather lamely, but there was no hope for it. She could have thwarted the Trojan War, had Paris laid eyes on her before Helen of Troy, so what hope was there for Jack Robinson? Poor sap, he thought. Then again, he prided himself on the fact that, before they had finally admitted their feelings to each other, he had held out for longer than most men would have dared. And there was fight left in him yet. She thought she could get her way with nothing but a good dress—well, she wasn't half wrong, but damned if he would make it that easy for her.

"Thank you, Jack. It's new. Do you think Aunt P will like it?"

"I think she'll try to wrestle you into the coat closet and lock you in," he replied, watching Mr. Butler leave the room before approaching Phryne, who had paused on the bottom stair so that they were eye to eye. He stood there before her for several long seconds, allowing the heat catch and flare between them, insolently holding her gaze and luxuriating in the warmth of her breath on his face. Then he let his eyes drop meaningfully to her breasts, indicating his notice of her nipples, which were declaring themselves proudly against the flimsy fabric. He noticed her hands had clenched into fists at her sides, struggling to remain still under his examination. One side of his mouth curled into a roguish grin. "Are you cold, my darling? I'd say it's feeling a bit...nipply in here."

She bit back a grin. "Oh, yes! Yes, thank you, Jack, I almost forgot."

She placed a hand on his shoulder as she stepped off the stair and slid around him to the bureau in the foyer, extracting a canister of cellulose tape from one of the drawers. He watched her as she popped open the tin and used a fingernail to find the end of the tape, peeling it back and using her teeth to break off a small piece.

"Watch how clever I am," said Phryne with a smile, holding up the tape like a magician about to perform an impressive trick. Then, flicking her eyes up to make sure Jack was watching, she slipped her fingers inside the neckline of her dress and applied the tape to her skin. When she removed her hand and smoothed the area, the beloved little bump had vanished. With agile fingers she gave the same treatment to her left breast, then she arched her back and held out her hands at her sides, inviting Jack's appraisal. "What do you think of that, Jack?"

Jack gulped. He daren't tell her what he really thought. "I think the poor things have been wrongfully imprisoned and will be terribly chafed when you finally choose release them."

She grinned coyly. "Nonsense. A nice hot bath will soak the tape right off."

Jack smirked. If tonight went according to plan, her nipples would know his fingers as their liberators, not bath water.

Dot came down the stairs then, arms full of Phryne's sable cloak, which she draped over her mistress's delicate white shoulders.

"You approve of this ensemble, Inspector? For a dinner at Mrs. Stanley's?" Dot asked tersely as she smoothed imaginary imperfections from the luxurious fur.

"Certainly not," grinned Jack, allowing himself only the smallest glimpse at the way the silk hugged Phryne's backside as she turned to retrieve a beaded handbag from the dining room table. "Which means all must be right with the world."

Miffed that she had not found an ally in Jack, Dot bid them both a pleasant evening and disappeared back upstairs.

Phryne and Jack pulled up to Mrs. Stanley's mansion at half past eight, Jack feeling rather smug at having endured the entire trip with her hand on his thigh and suffering relatively little damage to his calm. The trick had been a rigorous contemplation of his coin collection, carefully combing over the details of each individual coin in his mind until the threat from her touch was more or less neutralized.

Mrs. Stanley found them almost the moment the butler had let them through the door, looking predictably scandalized as Phryne's fur was swept away to the coat closet and the gown was revealed in full.

"Phryne Fisher!" she hissed, frowning deeply at her niece. "You are at a dinner party, not a cabaret! And you, Jack Robinson, letting her out of the house like that! I can practically count her ribs!"

Jack gave Prudence his most helpless smile. "You'll have to forgive me, Mrs. Stanley, but surely you don't think me so foolish as to stand in the way of your niece's fashion choices," he drawled. "I would sooner try and stop speeding train."

The old dragon gave a heartfelt harumph and led them into the drawing room, where a crowd of the upper crust—emphasis on crust—mingled with drinks in hand. This was Jack's least favorite type of gathering, composed of wealthy old stiff-necks who looked down their noses at him when he announced himself as someone who dared to work for his living. To Phryne's credit, she was quick to come to his defense when she felt he'd been slighted, and always wore him on her arm with nothing but the deepest pride. Still, attempting to fit in with this set, even for a single evening, was generally insufferable, and the promise of seducing the stunning woman at his side was the only thing that could possibly sustain him.

They were called to dinner before long, where Jack stirred up trouble by insisting on sitting beside Phryne. Mrs. Stanley tended to keep to the old Victorian way, which demanded that couples be separated while dining, but proximity to Phryne at the table was imperative to his plans, and eventually their hostess conceded the point in Jack's favor.

By now, Phryne was growing very suspicious of Jack, who had been eerily calm all evening. He had seemed appropriately impressed with her gown, but when she had pulled the stunt with the tape he had looked on as if witnessing a mildly impressive science project, awarding her his attention but keeping his face maddeningly neutral. Which meant, more than likely, he was planning something.

And that made Phryne nervous. For if he were to invite her to one of the dark rooms at the back of the house she would not hesitate. She craved his hands on her, she craved proof that he was not as unaffected as he seemed so far. A vivid image sprang into her mind of him bending her over a desk, holding her there with his pelvis while he tugged her skirts up between their bodies until she felt cold air on her backside. She knew exactly how the thick length of him would feel through his trousers, pressing insistently at the back of her bare thigh. The scenario made her squirm in her chair like a child in church.

Her fantasies were interrupted as a lusciously pink lobster potage was brought out and set before them. The idle chatter at the table slowed while the guests tested their first course.

"I went lobstering once, it was exhilarating," bragged the older gentleman on Phryne's left side, dabbing potage from his profuse moustache. "We caught a whole bundle of them and had a lobster feast that evening, I felt like quite the adventurer by the end."

Phryne smiled politely and dipped her spoon into her bowl, preparing a bland reply. But before she could offer it she was frozen by the sensation of fingers creeping up her right thigh.

Ah, yes. I might have guessed, thought Phryne, closing her lips around her spoon and relishing the tart creaminess of the soup in concert with the pleasure of Jack's touch.

He managed his own potage quite deftly, giving no indication from the elbow up that his left hand was anywhere but in his own lap where it should be. Phryne tucked herself a bit closer to the table, making sure her neighbor's view of Jack was obscured. It did not even occur to her to stop him.

His touch was gentle and sweet throughout the entire soup course, stroking her languorously just above the knee. There was constant chatter around them, but Phryne paid it no mind, making no attempts to join in. Her head was high, high in the clouds, and not even for the sake of politeness could she manage a comment on what she thought of The Mikado, which had been on at the Princess for the past week, nor even what she thought of the recent catastrophe on Wall Street, which was no doubt beginning to affect the wealth of many at the table. Jack's hand made such matters seem paltry to her, and when she had polished off the rest of her soup she reached down and grasped his fingers where they were on her thigh, eagerly intertwining them and squeezing until she could feel his pulse pounding against her palm.

The footmen came to collect the dishes, and Jack eased his hand out of her grip to avoid being caught. As if nothing had happened, he casually engaged in light conversation with the old crone beside him, whose copious jewels made her no less of an insufferable fishwife. Phryne resented the old woman for diverting his attention with a load of nonsense about her various allergies and how blessed she was that they didn't include shellfish.

The next course was brought out—poached oysters in cream, a dish that would have made Mr. Butler toss aside his pride and beg Aunt Prudence's cook for the recipe. The diners were presented with shallow bowls holding eight oysters on a bed of ice, each one bathed in a camembert cream sauce and garnished with caviar and a dainty sprig of tarragon. Phryne took up her oyster fork and began to scrape the tender flesh from the shell, letting her eyes dart quickly over to Jack as she raised the meat to her lips. He had managed to pass the old woman's tirade down to Aunt Prudence, who was lamenting her own allergy to cheap metals. But he made no further move to touch Phryne. Alas, the oysters required two hands to eat, and he could not very well reach over to her without interrupting his meal, which would likely draw attention. Phryne's decided her leg was safe as long as the oysters lasted, but probably not much further.

"These are amazing," he mumbled beside her, gulping down his fourth oyster. "I had caviar once when I was stationed in France and hated it, but it's lovely with the oysters."

"If that was even caviar they were feeding you," smiled Phryne, raising an oyster shell to her lips and keeping her eyes fixed on Jack as she sipped at the cream sauce with lust in her eyes. "Oysters are considered to be an aphrodisiac, you know."

Jack took a sip of champagne, aiming his gaze at a painting across the room. Then he dipped his face toward her, lowering his voice to a murmur. "Phryne, you yourself are an aphrodisiac, from that ridiculously perfect bob to the scarlet lacquer on your toenails. I do not need a bowl of slimy mollusks to make me want you. The mere sight of you makes me weak."

His voice stroked her like fingers, igniting fires in all of her intimate places, each word shooting an arrow of longing through the very core of her. She widened her grin in a feeble attempt to hide how profoundly she was affected.

"If you were weak, Jack, I would have been digging through your case files weeks ago. You can certainly hold your own."

Darting her eyes around the table to ensure there were not being observed, she inched her hand to where his lay upon the table, stroking his pinky lightly with her own. His eyelids lowered at the touch and his irises seemed to darken. She saw his tongue dart out to moisten his lips, so quickly she might have missed it.

"Generous of you to say. But I fear I may be reaching my limits. I think of little besides you these days, Miss Fisher, waking or sleeping. Being near you but not allowed inside you is torture. A torture I should be used to, as it compiled the first year or so of our acquaintance, but...now that I've had you it is desperately hard to go without. You cannot imagine."

Phryne was about to protest that she certainly could imagine when a mutton-chopped gentleman, called Mr. Hawthorne if memory served, spoke across the table and broke the spell of lust that gripped them.

"Tell us, Inspector...it's Robinson, isn't it?"

Before her eyes, Jack replaced the frustrated desire on his face with a mask of polite boredom. "It is," he confirmed.

"Yes, Inspector, I'm curious. Do you think this temperance movement will catch hold in Victoria? I've just spent a month in Napa Valley at my cousin's vineyard—former vineyard, really—and he's making a killing selling grapes. More than he ever made on wine. The Prohibition nonsense they've put on over there has everyone making the stuff in their own basements. Do you think something like that could happen to here? It would save me a pretty penny in production costs. Though I'm sure you lads in law enforcement would have a time keeping the town dry."

Jack tried to answer neutrally but Hawthorne was not willing to let him off so easy, and soon Jack had been sucked into a conversation that drew the interest of the entire table.

Phryne tried to use the time to steel herself, to think of how she might preempt him, but all she could seem to think about was the blue velvet chaise in her late uncle's study, a room that would be private and dark and far from the other guests. She was already imagining him pressing her into that chaise with the weight of his body, anointing her lips with urgent, probing kisses.

Heat crept up her nape as she tried to recall with exact detail the sensation of his open mouth sliding down the tendons of her neck, and she was so lost in her cogitations that it was a complete surprise when her empty oyster shells were whisked away and replaced by a steaming plate of sliced lamb smothered in shallot sauce.

The conversation on temperance had been hijacked by Lord Ackworth, who had recently been to visit the Indian viceroy, with whom he claimed to be particular friends. Lord Ackworth proceeded to embark on a tirade against a certain Mahatma Ghandi, who had been stirring things up for the British Raj, and Jack's opinion was no longer required.

Phryne stole a glance at him, but he seemed absorbed in his meal and made no further attempts to engage her. Not until pudding, at least.

After a flamboyant number of dishes had been paraded in and out of the room, a delicately molded lemon blancmange at last signaled the end of the meal. Something about the dainty treat, or perhaps it was his impending escape from the dining table, seemed to spur Jack into action. She had just spooned her first bite when his fingers had found her again, this time distinctly more urgent.

He searched the gathers of her skirt until he found the split in the middle, flicking the fabric aside and grasping hungrily at her bare flesh. Phryne bit her lip as she felt his touch curl against the sensitive skin at the back of her knee. She noticed her spoon had frozen over her plate and hurriedly slipped the bite of creamy gelatine into her mouth. She risked a glance in his direction, certain she'd find his face twisted by the same longing that was abrading her from throat to sternum, but on the outside her remained cool and impassive. Damn him.

Against her thigh, however, his fingers scrawled a very different story. He branded her with his touch, scraping his fingernails up the inside of her thigh, higher, higher, all the way to the place where her leg creased into her hip. No more than an inch from the place that craved his touch the most. Then he stopped, palming the inside of her thigh before seizing a handful of her flesh.

A tiny whimper escaped from Phryne and she disguised it with a little cough. In the back of her mind she wondered faintly at how no one at the table seemed to notice them at all, though she thought surely Jack's movements had grown considerably less subtle.

But the old coots, her aunt included, seemed utterly blind to the fact that a very lucky woman was being wickedly groped, right beneath their crystal plates of blancmange. Jack gripped her a bit harder, making her picture the depressions his fingers must be making in her flesh. She clamped her legs together reflexively, trapping his hand between her thighs and creating a soothing pressure at her center.

Jack's fork fell from his fingers, hitting the table with a quiet thump. He cleared his throat and adjusted his tie, looking a touch less impassive at the sensation of his entire hand being clenched between her warm thighs. Served him right! She swallowed a heaping spoonful of her blancmange, the cool dessert doing what little it could to assuage the blazing heat that licked at her insides.

It seemed an eternity before the dessert plates were cleared away, but once they were Aunt Prudence promptly announced for the ladies to follow her through to the parlor and leave the gentlemen to their after dinner drinks.

Phryne was about to suggest that the two of them make an early departure when Jack curled firm fingers around the crook of her elbow and leaned towards her in a gesture that was more intimate than what he would normally attempt in front of witnesses. "Your uncle's study. Five minutes, or less, if you can manage it," he instructed gruffly. Then he released her, allowing her to stand and leave the room before anyone took notice of their exchange. As she followed the other women into the parlor, she couldn't help but feel as if she had left her heart and soul behind in the dining room.

Phryne remained standing once they'd all filed into the parlor, watching the minutes tick away on the ornate cuckoo clock near the door, hardly paying any mind to the other guests as she kept her eyes sharp for an opportunity to disappear. At the five minute mark the butler shuffled in with a tray of cocktails, and as her aunt assisted with passing out the refreshments Phryne seized the opportunity to creep out of the room. Feeling confident that her departure had not been noted, she turned the corner and slid out of her shoes to allow for the stealthiest possible exit.

After that it was pell-mell to the study, where she hoped Jack would already be waiting for her. Phryne tried to think strategy but found it utterly impossible; instead her mind was filled with the image of him waiting for her, standing in the shadows, the darkness doing nothing to disguise the raw lust in those inimitable eyes. Jack had so many ways of positioning his body, most of which made her weak at the knees, but none so much as when he had something to lean against—yes, one elbow leaning, one hand at his hip. Or in his pocket. That was how she pictured him now...the mere thought of him like that made her want to strip him.

Phryne reached the door to the study in record time and stood outside for a few beats, catching her breath. Despite her efforts, she was still practically giddy when she turned the knob, opening the door just wide enough to slide inside before easing it closed behind her. She turned.

Jack was there, looking almost precisely as she'd imagined. His eyes were fixed on her, but not on her face. His expression was almost wolfish—she had never seen him look that way before, and it turned her insides to jelly. He was leaning against the fireplace, one arm stretched out across the mantle, the other shoved deep in his pocket. Phryne wondered, not for the first time, if he had the ability to read her mind.

She swallowed hard as she considered what was about to happen. There was an entire party of people mere feet away from them. The buzz of voices was still audible even with the door closed behind her, and if Aunt Prudence noticed their absence there was a chance she'd come looking. What was more, there was no way of latching the door.

God in heaven, why did those facts thrill her so much?

"Hello, Jack," she murmured to him, moving sinuously to the velvet chaise and sinking down onto it, tossing her legs out in front of her before sliding her bare feet up a few inches, causing her knees to bend and the skirt to fall into two pieces at the slit, baring her almost to the hip.

Jack studied her movements intensely, his mouth dry at the as he examined her enticing pose. It took all his strength not to lunge for her. No, no, not yet...he wanted to look at her, to savor her, to commit every second to memory. He was already tossing aside the whole idea of the wager like it was a bit of rubbish. The only thing in his mind right now was Phryne. He didn't want to talk, he didn't want to tease, he didn't want to play any more games. He wanted to be inside of her, her legs wrapped around him—in the fewest amount of steps possible. With her dress split open like that, his view of the tuft of dark hair between her legs was obscured only by her calves, which were pressed together and arranged for that specific purpose. He would only need to step forward, cover her knees with his hands and tease them carefully apart...

Jack mentally shook himself. No, no, there was a plan. The plan was to make Phryne beg for mercy. And to put an end to this damned wager once and for all.

He thought he might have proved by now that, in their relationship at least, females did not hold absolute power when it came to bedroom matters. But her power was not be underestimated either. And he needed to make his move before she began to wield it in earnest.

"Jack, my God," she laughed breathlessly, running her hands slowly along the sides of her bare thighs. "I thought for sure we would be caught at the table. But you are so sneaky, I don't think anyone suspected a thing. Full marks."

He was too seized with lust to form a coherent response. Instead he pushed away from the mantle, stalking towards her and reaching for her, intending to sweep her up to him for kiss that would to shake her very foundations. But she rolled deftly to her feet and danced away from him, an impish smile spreading over her face.

"Lipstick," she explained, retrieving her handbag from the table by the door and extracting a monogrammed handkerchief. "We wouldn't want to smear any on that spotless white shirt. Then we would most certainly be found out."

He pushed his hands back into his pockets impatiently, tilting his head and glancing up from beneath his lashes, unable to keep his eyes off her as she dabbed at her lips.

He suspected this was a tactic, an attempt to gather her wits before he began his onslaught. But he found he could not wait, and moved towards her as she dabbed—"Jack, I'm not finished!"—but instead of kissing her he reached inside her dress and extracted her tape-covered breast, a bit more roughly than he'd meant to. The lack of tenderness only seemed to inflame her, though, and the handkerchief grew still against her mouth.

"Jack…"

With his thumb, he teased the corner of the tape that suppressed her nipple, all the while gazing into her eyes, letting her see every inch of the violent need that was tearing through him.

Once he had coaxed the corner up he dropped his eyes to his task. Using his left hand to gently cup her breast, the fingers of his right grasped the corner of the tape and peeled it carefully away from her flesh, rubbing his left thumb soothingly over the skin he exposed.

"It looks red," he breathed. "Let me see it in the light."

He grasped her by the hips and nimbly maneuvered her until her buttocks bumped up against the desk, across which moonlight was spilled, carved into parallelograms by the window panes. He swung her around until the glow fanned over her creamy skin, giving light to his task. "Just a bit chafed, I think," he assured her. Swallowing, Jack plucked up the end of the tape again, guiding it carefully until her nipple popped free.

The sight of it, pink and puckered and swollen with anticipation, made him forget everything. He snatched the rest of the tape off carelessly, his head rushing down to suck her flesh into his mouth. Her gasp of surprise and pain became a moan of deep pleasure as his lips closed around her and he began to apologize with his tongue.

Jack shivered as he felt her hands tangle in his hair, and he belatedly realized that it was unlikely they'd ever be able to emerge from this room looking the way they did going into it. Perhaps Aunt Prudence's dinner party had not been the wisest venue for his sortie after all.

Alas, it was far too late to worry about that now. His ears drank in her mewling cries and his tongue curled over her velvety flesh, drawing hard on her nipple to soothe away the imprisonment of the tape.

"Jack, please," she panted. "The other." Jack pulled back a little to realize she had removed the tape from her other breast on her own. He obeyed her greedily, sliding both straps from her shoulders and letting the silk fall away from her chest as he lavished attention on the opposite nipple. He wasn't honestly sure what was keeping the dress from slipping off of her completely, other than the snugness at her hips, but he was partially glad it had stayed put. If the whole thing had dropped to the ground he did not like to think how quickly he would have lost control.

She held his head in her arms as he lathed one breast with his tongue, gently cupping the other in his hand. So close to her chest, he could hear the sounds of her pleasure humming within her ribs before they reached her lips. The vibrations of her moans against his mouth sent darts of arousal flying to his groin, until he was stiff and hot and warring against the confinement of his trousers.

Ah. Well. His coin collection could not save him now. Not even the image of Aunt Prudence in her nightie could overpower the excruciating pleasure of Phryne's delicate flesh against his tongue, the heat of her silk-clad hips beneath his hands, the flowery notes of her perfume overtaking his senses, and he was beginning to fear that all was lost. Or won, depending on how you looked at it.

Jack straightened in front of her, clearly ready to go in for the kill. He sucked in air at almost the same moment he grabbed her lips with his own, and the insistent, gasping sound of his lungs filling with air, together with the delicious give of his mouth, tugged arousal through Phryne as if on a string. She kissed him back without restraint, pushing his jacket from his shoulders before securing her arms tightly around his middle. Against her stomach pressed the evidence of his desire, and suddenly Phryne had only one thing in her head.

Jack seemed to have his own objective, however; his hands were sliding hotly over her buttocks and down her thighs, finding the slit in her skirt again before reaching for the moist heat between her legs. But Phryne pushed his questing hand away, instead grasping at the buttons to his trousers and pulling them open with practiced fingers.

"It's your turn, darling. You've more than earned it," she murmured into his ear, pressing a soft kiss behind the lobe.

"Phryne…"

But whether her name was meant as a warning or encouragement Phryne never discovered, for as her fingers closed around his firm, silken length, the capacity for speech seemed to leave him.

She stared into his face as she moved her grip in a leisurely, downward stroke, mesmerized by the way pleasure contorted his features. His lips had fallen open, his brow creasing severely over his eyes, which had fluttered shut. She let her touch wander smoothly back to the tip, finding the sensitive spot at the underside of his crown and rubbing gently with her thumb.

His eyes flew open before squeezing tightly shut again, a low groan filling his chest as he planted his hands on the desk at either side of her hips, struggling to steady himself.

"Wicked," he mumbled, reaching up to loosen his tie and open his collar. "You are absolutely wicked."

Phryne began to move her hand more quickly, pursing her lips in a knowing smile. "I haven't even begun to be wicked, Jack."

Her strokes settled into a steady rhythm and the expression on his face made her shiver. She wanted desperately to push him backwards until he fell into the chair, then discover what would happen to his features when she replaced her hand with her mouth.

But no. Not unless he asked her to. If she was to win she would have to make him beg.

However, another glance at his face told her that he was farther along in his pleasure than she'd anticipated. His breathing was coming fast and he had given up moaning all together, his face clenched in concentration as his climax began to build.

She should take her hand away. It was what he had done to her, after all. But then he buried his mouth at her neck, pressing his lips hotly to her skin and wrapping an arm around her waist. He ground his hips against her thigh, limiting the space she had in which to move her hand and forcing her to grip him a bit harder to maintain her rhythm. Phryne simply didn't have the heart to pull away from him now.

She moved her hand even faster, using her free hand to grip him by the hair and ease his head back, so she could graze her teeth over the skin exposed at his collar.

He grunted, trembling in her arms and seeming to panic a little. "You have to stop, Phryne, wait, I can't—it'll make a mess—"

But Phryne refused to remove her hand, and somewhere in the midst of his protests the profoundly unwelcome sound of Aunt Prudence's voice broke into the haze of desire that surrounded them. "Phryne? Phryne! Where are you?"

At the very same time, Jack muffled a shout against her neck, and then he was cursing and shuddering helplessly in her arms.

"Phryne, where have you run off to, girl? Mrs. Hayes wants to ask you about your car!"

Phryne wanted to club the old woman. "Just a moment, Aunt P! Go back to the drawing room, I'll be there in a moment!"

Jack still had her trapped against the desk as he tried to catch his breath, and she stroked a hand gently over his hair before carefully extracting herself. She retrieved her handkerchief from where she had dropped it on the ground and used it to clean her hand, tossing it in the bin before she heard Prudence again.

"Where are you? What on earth are you doing?"

Phryne had just managed to get the straps of her dress back onto her shoulders when her aunt threw the door open. Phryne looked back at Jack, panicked, but he had cleverly seated himself at the desk, looking annoyingly composed.

"Inspector? What—what are…" but somewhere before finishing her sentence Prudence seemed to note Phryne's mussed hair and absent lipstick. "Oh! Oh my goodness, what on earth—"

"Don't fret, Aunt P, we will slip out the back. Give everyone our regrets, will you? I'm dreadfully sorry about all this, but if you could just go back to the parlor, please?" begged Phryne, giving her aunt her most imploring look.

"We'll discuss all of this over tea tomorrow," grumbled Aunt Prudence, but she turned on her heel as requested and left them to their depravities.

"Damn damn damn," mumbled Phryne, running her hands through her hair and turning back to Jack. "Damn," she added, for good measure.

"Home would be best," said Jack, embarrassment and satisfaction warring within him. "I, for one, need a change of clothes and a bath."

Phryne's face split into a sly grin. She swayed over to him, coming around the desk to find him still unbuttoned and hanging freely from his trousers. Dark desire drew her features and she reached forward to tuck him back in and button him up. Jack gave an involuntary twitch as she touched him, and was certain he could be ready to perform again by the time they returned to her house. He might even be prepared to beg her. Because making love to Phryne Fisher was, at this juncture, the only thing he wanted in this world. He wanted it far more than he wanted that foolish car.

She pulled him up by the hand and led him out through the solarium towards the car.

"Your house," she said softly as the climbed in, scooting over and leaning her body against him. "There are far too many ears at mine."


	5. JACKpot

Phryne gave a little shiver beside Jack in the car, realizing belatedly that she had left her warm stole behind at Aunt Prudence's. It would of course be returned, along with tea and a lecture tomorrow afternoon. But in the mean time she felt rather exposed in her thin gown, despite the fact she had pressed herself into Jack's warm side. Noticing her shiver, he shucked his jacket with one hand on the wheel, passing it over to her.

She smiled as she silently accepted it, touched by the tender gesture even though it was hardly unusual for Jack to be chivalrous. She pulled the coat around her, feeling that she might as well be wrapping herself in his very skin, so potent were the scents in which it sheathed her.

It was hardly the first time she had examined the unique aromas that combined to create eau de Jack, but it was an intricate science and she was still researching the subtle undertones. It did not take a detective to identify more obvious scents: the whorl of earthy lavender washed into his clothes by a very clever launderer, the tang of citrus and clove from his aftershave. The beeswax in his pomade gave off a warm, sweet nectar and she could even pick out a faint, salty note of sweat, particularly about the collar.

But there were quantities of quieter scents beneath the others, and he was all the more delicious for it. Phryne tucked the jacket more securely around herself, slithering her arms into the sleeves and lifting one to her face, inhaling deeply. There was a piquant snap of something piney, but it wasn't cedar...more herbal...could it be marjoram? It was not a conventional fragrance, but Jack was hardly a conventional man. She could detect something else, something dark and biting and acrid, what was it? She sucked him into her lungs once more and something clicked into place in her brain. Gun solvent. Of course. Though heaven only knew what the man was doing cleaning his weapon in his finest suit.

"You're troublingly quiet over there," rumbled Jack, his voice low and a little tight. She wondered what had been on his mind while she was busy with her scent analysis.

"You're not used to silence from me, I know," she grinned at him, letting her lashes dip temptingly. "Does it make you nervous, Jack?"

"It makes me wish I was the one keeping you silent. With my mouth."

She hummed with arousal at his words, which seemed to resonate in some deep, dark place within her. If it were up to Phryne, she would have declared Jack's voice the eighth wonder of the world. "Your mouth makes me scream just as often as it silences me."

His breath hitched and his knuckles paled as he gripped the steering wheel harder. "Phryne."

"I was thinking," she continued in a tone of complete innocence, tucking her nose into the lapel of his coat and sipping at his scent again. "Well. One way or another I always find my way into your case files. You are especially generous with them these days. It's not as if I really need officialfree reign of them...I might as well already have it. And my car! You don't want that car. You hate that car. If you won it you'd only push it off a cliff."

Her eyes became pinned to his throat, watching the slow, downward slide of his Adam's apple as he swallowed the implication of her words.

"Are we calling it off, then?" he asked, his voice thick with expectation. "The wager?

"I'd be willing to call it a draw, if you're agreeable."

He said nothing, but suddenly she noticed the car slowing. He turned the wheel towards her and the motorcar bumped and shook as it veered off the pavement, shuddering into the grass until Jack brought them to a stop several feet from the road, to a patch hidden in black shadows from overhanging trees.

She watched him questioningly, heart roaring so loudly in her ears she thought it must have relocated to her skull. She was barely able to make out his tense, noble features in the sparse starlight, but he didn't move for several seconds. Phryne watched him in excitement and anticipation, daring him to do whatever he was working up to. Heat and thwarted desire pressed her together like a length of damp muslin being ground through a laundry mangle. She couldn't sit still in her seat—her thighs flexed desperately, trying to contain the empty, throbbing want between them, and it caused her to rock a little from side to side. The road was lonely and dark...at this time of night there would hardly be any motorists passing. They would not be interrupted this time.

He reached out a hand towards her then seemed to think better of it. He snatched his arm back and opened his door, springing from the car. Phryne felt weak and weightless, and didn't have any time to react before he had pulled her door open and was hauling her out as well.

"Jack, what—"

He tugged his coat from her, hurling it back onto the seat before slamming the door shut. With blinding speed he had twisted her in his arms, pressing the front of her ruthlessly into the side of the police motorcar, the sudden chill of steel and glass cutting right through the delicate silk of her gown. Phryne found herself shivering again.

His hot breath at her ear soon banished all thoughts of cold. "Don't worry. I intend to keep you warm."

"What's got into you?" she half-panted, her words threaded with hunger. She could feel the full length of his body pressing behind her, pinning her against the car, and she arched her back, switching her hips as she ground her backside into his pelvis, hoping to agitate the telling bulge she found there. "Already at full attention again, are we? Jack, I'm flattered." She tried to cling to her playful manner, but it was slipping from her quickly as her animal instincts began to take over.

"He's missed out on a few weeks of action," grunted Jack, licking a line from earlobe to shoulder as his long fingers dug in at her hips. "There is some lost time we must compensate for."

Phryne couldn't help but beam as his hand smoothed around to cup the curve of her stomach, pulling her ever closer. "Do you call him Little Jack? I once knew this Canadian lumberjack—"

There was an insistent hand at her chin, then, and he was kissing her silent before she could finish, his tongue delving into the space behind her lower lip as if to obliterate any and all memories of former lovers.

"I am a grown man, Miss Fisher," he growled when he pulled back. "I don't have a name for my manhood. And calling it 'little' is just unkind."

"You're correct, 'little' would indeed be a misnomer. But I think he needs a name," purred Phryne, slipping a hand back between them to locate the notably erect gentleman in question as Jack nibbled a tender spot on her shoulder. "What about Sergeant Bratwurst? You being so skilled at German."

"Certainly not," he replied matter-of-factly, seizing her inquisitive hand in his much larger one and placing it back on the car. "I am a Detective Inspector, you cannot demote my appendage to Sergeant."

Phryne bit her lip, stifling both a giggle and a gasp as his hands left her and she heard the sound of fastenings being unfastened. His mouth maintained its determination to survey her, inch by inch. "Sincerest apologies, my beloved Detective Inspector. I did not mean to wound your pride. But as long as we're on the theme of your profession, what about Sir Nightstick?"

He made a choking sound behind her but recovered quickly. "It'll never do."

There was a rustle of fabric and she suddenly felt the searing weight of his length, now free of its fabric prison, straining against the curve of her backside. She gave the topic of naming it another moment's thought. Then, making her voice high and honey-sweet, she offered, "Cupid's Fiery Shaft?"

He bit her for that one, a sharp little love nip at the curve of her shoulder that made her inner muscles clench woefully around nothing. "Oberon would be pleased that you attended his words so closely. But no, I could never allow it." Her skirts were being lifted, the silk itself whispering in excitement as it was hoisted up by fistfuls to the base of her spine. The rush of cool air did nothing to soothe her scorched flesh.

And then there were fingers. Long, warm, Jack fingers, smoothing over her center with just enough pressure to make her ache. One of them found her entrance, dragging the dampness he discovered there forwards to circle her throbbing clit. Her muscles grew taut and stiff with the effort to keep still, not wishing to distract him from his vital task. He returned to her opening, working one finger insider her, then two. She bit into the fleshy part of her palm to keep from crying out...she did not want him to know yet how close she was to shattering into a million pieces.

Suddenly her wrists were seized, tugged behind her and fastened together by one of his clever hands, which pinned them at the small of her back. Without her hands to support her, her cheek was forced into the cool glass of the window, and she chuckled to herself at the thought of him having to clean smears of makeup off the window of his official vehicle.

Phryne was not often fond of giving up her freedom of movement while being made love to, but she found herself struggling for breath at the sensation of being completely at the mercy of the exquisite man who held her fast. They had been in a similar position once before—Jack having been in the process of placing her under arrest—and she had found his commanding manner stirring even then. But this...this was something elseentirely. Phryne decided at once that this wager had been worth all the trouble, if only to bring out this utterly thrilling side of her inimitable Inspector.

"Its name," he muttered at her ear, regaining her full attention as he nudged her legs apart with his knee. "Is the sound you make when I put it inside you. I challenge you, Miss Fisher, to emulate that sound out of context. It is a very distinctive utterance, one I have memorized quite carefully, and I'm afraid you will only be able to call it by its proper name once you've been impaled."

The last word came out with a grunt, for he had done it at the same time he said it, using his hand to guide himself to her entrance before surging upwards, sinking to the very hilt. As he had foreseen, a high, silken sob of utter delight broke from her lips. He was right—she doubted she would be able to repeat that sound without the experience of being so deliciously invaded.

She did not know how long he held her there, surrounded by the hypnotic whir of crickets and nightjars, a nocturnal symphony percussed by the sound of their labored breaths. She clutched at him with her insides as if in welcome, suddenly feeling very much at her leisure and wanting nothing more than to wallow in the perfect satisfaction that filled her as she became reacquainted with his remarkable cock.

For his own part, coherent thought was something that had become a foreign concept to Jack. For a long while he was nothing but sensation, the experience of once again securing himself within her slippery heat making him feel as if he had been suddenly bathed in hot, white light—as if he were on a stage with every spotlight aimed at him, but instead of an audience beyond him in the dark he looked into a black cavity of brutal, nebulous pleasure. A pleasure that could only be realized in the act of claiming this woman. He had to keep still, had to let the savage rush of emotion and ecstasy surge over him before he could even begin to know what to do next. He was inside her as far as he could go, which even now made him a little nervous, though Phryne had always enthusiastically accepted all of him.

Rosie, who had not been blessed with Phryne's depths (either in body or in spirit), and had never been overly fond of physical intimacy to begin with, had always fussed and squirmed when he tried to introduce any more than half of himself. Not that he would ever blame or fault her—she could not help the limits of her body, and causing discomfort to the woman sharing his bed was the very last thing he wanted. But the lovemaking that resulted had always been painstaking and abstemious. Any passion that had existed between them was eventually eliminated by frustration on both sides; indeed, Jack had nearly forgotten what passion was until he met the miraculous Miss Fisher. Before long, sex with Rosie had become nothing more than a task, carried out in hopes of conceiving a child and, when that failed, he had at last given up the ghost. It had occurred to him that the physical distance she had imposed between them, even when their bodies were joined, had only worked to drive the wedge in their marriage deeper. Until it was a marriage in name only.

Perhaps he had just been bad in bed. If he had tried harder, if he had been more patient, or more attentive, or if he had known some of the tricks Phryne had taught him...

Phryne. No, he could not bring himself to regret the things that had gone wrong between him and Rosie. His marriage could have never brought him the happiness and fulfillment he had found in Phryne's arms, and suddenly he thought the impossible thought of what might have happened if he'd met Phryne first.

Needing to reassure himself, he slid his hands inwards from where they rested on her hips, spreading her luscious backside in order to get a better look at where they were joined. He observed hungrily the way she swallowed him to the root and found himself hoping that the completeness of their joining would only bring them closer in this new, incredible, unexpected-but-now-more necessary-than-air attachment he had formed with Phryne.

His Phryne, for as long as she'd have him.

"Jack," she whispered throatily, his name condensing into a cloud of fog on the window of the car. She began to rock her hips against him in encouragement. She wanted him to move. She wanted him. She wanted him.

Something came loose inside of Jack and he wrapped his right arm across the front of her, spanning her from shoulder to shoulder, pulling up her against him and nudging her forwards a few inches until she could be pressed no further. Fully sandwiched between his body and the sleek steel of the motorcar, Phryne felt his fingers graze over her scalp before seizing a handful of hair, using it to tug her head backwards for a kiss that was almost angry in its fervor.

His tongue pushed down on hers, hot and thick, and he seemed to lose his mind for a moment, shaking against her as he sucked at every bit of her mouth he could reach. He began to move inside her, slowly at first, forcing knots of shivery, abyssal spasms over her muscles. No part of her was exempt from sensation...the bones of her fingers, the crown of her head, the undersides of her breasts, the balls of her feet...not an inch was spared from the pleasure that shuddered through her, fanning out in hot, heart-squeezing ripples from the place where they were joined.

She gasped his name over and over like some sort of holy invocation, Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, **Jack**. He began to move faster, harder, his tempo and force intensifying until he was pounding into her, her entire body quaking in rhythm as her flesh absorbed the stunning impact of each plunge.

Phryne ground herself back against him, matching his intensity as she felt a bottomless climax swelling inexorably from a place deep in her chest, a place that had not existed before Jack, or perhaps that she had carved out especially in preparation for him. It was a place that, once located, had direct access to every pleasure nerve in her body. Yet it also had the peculiar ability to ensnare her heart so hopelessly, making her feel raw and lost and utterly, utterly full. It was something she had told herself she would never need and now she wasn't sure how she would ever do without it.

The relentlessness of his flesh crashing into hers, combined with the heightened state of her emotions...and suddenly she was done for. Before she could even make sense of what was happening, her eyes were rolling back into her head and an orgasm slammed into her at full force, dragging her under, pushing her up, raking her with pleasure that started from somewhere behind her eyes and pitched all the way down to the spaces between her toes. She heard Jack release a thick groan as her inner muscles contracted around him but he showed no signs of slowing. He reached for the straps of her gown and tugged it to her waist, filling his hands with her breasts and redoubling his efforts. He was kissing her everywhere, murmuring filthy things in her ear...Phryne was quite sure she had heard him say "Sir Nightstick" in there somewhere.

But the height of her arousal, as well as the intensity of her climax, made his presence inside of her suddenly unbearable. "Jack, I need just a moment...I'm sensitive, I came so hard..." But he silently refused to be still, and she added in a sob, "Please, please, I can't bear it!"

"You can," was all he said back. He wanted to look at her face. He allowed her only the barest moment of relief as he slid himself out in order to spin her around. He lifted her in his arms so her back was supported against the car and both legs were thrown high over his shoulders, her ankles bobbing somewhere in the vicinity of his ears. He clutched ruthlessly at her backside, half-hoping to brand her with bruises the shape of his fingers, then aligned himself carefully at her entrance before sheathing himself once more, plunging forward until he bumped against her pubic bone.

"Wait, wait!" she protested hoarsely, her head thrashing from side to side. The tortured ecstasy on her face did monstrous things to him and he could do nothing but swallow her protests with his mouth, kissing her long and slow to match the measured rhythm of his searching thrusts. He wanted to see what would happen if he refused to let her recover from her climax. He wanted to feel in detail the precise texture of her inner flesh, to know every inch of her pillowy ridges and smooth slickness. Most of all, he wanted to remind her that while they may constantly battle each other for the upper hand, while the wager may have gone somewhat awry and he may not have triumphed over her as he'd promised, that she needed him for this, that she needed him period, that he could offer her something not one of her many lovers had ever managed—this profound, terrifying intimacy that could only accompany the lovemaking between two people who, though they may have never said the words aloud, were completely and irreparably in love with each other.

The swell of emotion that accompanied that thought quickened his pace. The blunt smack of their flesh meeting over and over again was driving him wild, and he only just kept his own release at bay. Phryne was incoherent, quaking and spasming, clutching madly at his still-clad forearms and seeming unable to make any noise above a choked whimper. Which was convenient, seeing as how he couldn't be sure how far her screams would reach in the free night air. The last thing he needed was one of his colleagues coming out to investigate.

What was that old-fashioned term? Rutting, that was it. That was how this felt, this fervid joining against a car that he had barely bothered to hide, a spontaneous decision so very unlike him but so satisfying in its execution.

He watched her closely, lifting a hand to her face to push the damp fringe away from her forehead before leaning in to press a kiss between her eyes. She was arching, straining, half-mad with sensation...he realized, suddenly, that he had not just prevented her from recovering from her orgasm...he prevented it from ever truly ending in the first place.

"My God. You're still coming, aren't you?" he murmured, hardly believing it himself.

Her eyes were squeezed shut but she nodded frantically, fighting for breath. "Yes," she hissed through gritted teeth. "Yes!"

Phryne's mind was white, hot, blank. Pleasure blared in her ears like radio static turned to maximum volume, and she could focus on nothing but the sensation of his length scraping back and forth over her raw nerves. She was close, so close, and if he stopped she would die, instantly—of that she was certain. A tiny piece of her, at the very back of her brain, couldn't help feeling a little embarrassed. Whatever he had done to her nether regions had completely taken over her nervous system, making her quiver and twitch like a puppet on a string, and she hoped she didn't look utterly foolish. She couldn't even open her eyes to steal a glance at his face, so strong were the spasms gripping her. She had experienced a truepetite mort only twice in her life, and both times had occurred years ago. But if he kept crashing into her like that...whatever was building inside of her felt so intense she was completely certain that when it finally broke apart she would have to lose consciousness in order to keep from exploding in truth.

Jack knew he couldn't last much longer. His legs were shaky from holding her up and his cock was on fire, deprived if release for far longer than was humane or just. But he could sense how close she was. He observed her attentively, waiting until that moment when her breath caught in her throat, knowing it meant she was bracing for impact. He reached the precipice with her, giving up thrusting entirely as he lodged himself deep within her until their bodies were flush. He ground against her once, twice. Then he heard a tight, gasping, "Jack!" And with that, she came apart in his arms.

He clutched her close as he tumbled into his own release, kissing every part of her he could reach, scraping his teeth against her shoulder as he emptied himself inside her. He felt as if someone had taken a cricket bat to his skull, his head was such a mess of love and lust and the most extraordinary feeling of attachment. He fought down the little piece of him that seized in panic at the thought of ever losing her.

"Phryne," he whispered worshipfully into her neck. He noticed for the first time how quiet she was, and pulled back to see her head lolling against the car, eyes closed as if in sleep. "Miss Fisher? Are you all right?"

Then, as if she had been with him all along, her lashes fluttered and lifted, startling him with the powerful emotions in her soft blue eyes.

"That was…" she breathed, blinking at him in awe. "That was…"

"Yes," agreed Jack, carefully lowering her to her feet and allowing himself to slip free from her warmth. He discovered right away that she would not be able to stand on her own—her knees buckled under her, nearly pulling both of them to the ground. She collapsed into peals of laughter and his ears throbbed at the pleasure of it. He wrenched open the passenger's side door and settled her in the seat, helping her lift the straps of her dress back onto her shoulders before tucking himself back into his own clothes.

Once he was righted, he let his eyes wander over her. She sat sideways, facing him, her head leaning sleepily against the back of the seat. She practically glowed in the moonlight, looking well loved and utterly satisfied. And that stunning gown...well, it was in a state indeed.

"I'm afraid you won't be able to ask Miss Williams to rescue that dress. I believe we've left behind some rather questionable stains on it," he murmured to her, urging her knees apart so he could step between them and plunder her mouth with a slow, searching kiss.

After a few long moments she pulled back just far enough to speak. "I think I'll send it home with you, Inspector. Lest you ever forget tonight."

"There's not a chance in hell of that, but I will gladly accept it as a souvenir," he muttered against her lips. He felt her fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck.

Phryne pulled back a little further, smiling euphorically as she examined his features. She leaned back in and pressed kisses to the darling hollows of his cheeks, to the sweet rounded tip of his nose, to each little line of seriousness that traversed his forehead. She brushed away the strands of hair that had fallen into his eyes and trailed her fingers lovingly over his temple and down along his jawline.

"I think I may just keep you," she whispered to him, hoping he would read the earnest message behind her playful words.

The boyish smile that broke over his face told her he at least had an inkling. "I don't think I'll mind too terribly, being part of your people collection," he told her, attempting a solemn look that was ruined by the grin, which seemed determined to stay put. "As long as I can keep you as well."

"Deal," she agreed, reaching out to shake his hand before drawing him in for another kiss. "Now, shall we sneak home for a bath and a very long nap? I'll need to refresh myself a bit before I can be ready to have you again."

Jack gave one of those singular smiles, the kind that turned tugged the corners of his mouth downward and yet was anything but a frown. "At your service, as always, Miss Fisher."

He gently tucked her knees into the car and closed her door, walking around to the driver's side as if the hard ground beneath his feet was made of clouds. He noticed there was still a fine tremor in his limbs from the aftershocks of their joining, and he thought cheekily to himself that he ought to take Phryne outdoors more often.

* * *

Note: Whew! I hope you guys enjoyed! I'd love to hear what you think, good or bad. Thanks for reading!


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